


Nowhere To Be Found

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-03 08:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He misses her and there's not much left of the man he used to be, the man she had made him. Someone who had allowed himself to believe in second chances. It doesn't seem to end, the constant hurt and how it lingers so persistently, unwavering in its intensity. And now, there was nothing. Without her, there was nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life After The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> You all knew this was coming. Enjoy the suffering! There will be two chapters- ch. 2 should be up very soon. Don't wanna leave you hanging too long.

It's been three months since he lost her.

Three months of grief, so deep, so visceral, dragging him and pulling, clinging to him like a blanket of pain and there wasn't much else now, just the little one and him, the little girl, strong like her a mother and beautiful, so so beautiful. Tom had left her behind, was too weak to cope, too selfish to sacrifice, and so he had taken her in, a ray of light and hope and a reminder that he had to be better, fight against the hatred threatening to break him once and for all, for her sake, for the love he had lost.

He had never stood a chance, the tiny finger wrapped around his, and that smile.

 _Agnes_. A good name.

And now, reality.

He spends as much time with her as possible, has made a home for the two of them, carries her gently around the house and sways back and forth when she becomes fidgety and that does it, and he's done this before, has his remedies. She spends the days cradled against his chest, his voice filling the room. He tells her stories every night, tells her about her mother, what a strong and brave woman she was, their adventures, and it all sounds so simple, so exciting, so very long ago. Before his world shattered into pieces and _you look just like her_ and _she loves you very, very much._ She stares back at him then and reaches for him and at least there's that, at least there's something he can hold on to, a kiss on her forehead and _goodnight, sweet girl_. The sound of her laughter when he tickles her cheek. To him, it's everything.

She is asleep in his bedroom, peaceful and safe, and it's late at night when he settles in front of the fireplace, allows himself a drink and the thought of her, he can't stop himself sometimes, and when he closes his eyes he can still feel her arms around his neck, unsteady breathing and _the bullet, I could hear it_ , can still smell the perfume she wore that night at the embassy, can hear it loud and clear, ringing and ringing and _ringing_ , Raymond, and her final breath, _I do love_...

He loves her, too. Always has. Can hardly stand it sometimes, the regret of not telling her, the regret of entering her life and shattering it. Ending it.

If things had only gone differently. If he could have saved her.

If it had been him.

He dreams about the moments in the ambulance every night, her hand on his cheek, too still, too cold, and the denial, it couldn't be and _please don't go, Lizzie_ , _don't leave me_ , not in this life, not in the next. His lips caressing her face, hoping for something to make it stop, to breathe life into her, to alleviate her wounds, and that's all he remembers now, her forehead against his, _please_ , and his legs barely carrying him, and then silence. Unbearable silence.

And then the days after. Vengeance and rage and torture, blood on his hands and her name on his lips, because someone had to pay, because people had been responsible, and he needed her to come back, to wake up from this nightmare. He didn't attend the funeral, watched from afar and stood by her side that night, finally offering the one truth in his life. _I do love you, Lizzie._ He visits her grave on occasion, his eyes fixed on her name, and then his breathing becomes heavy, the injustice of it, the ache. He never stays more than a few minutes, can't really bear it, it isn't safe, but he needs to tell her. _I miss you._ The rest he keeps to himself, keeps the burden on his shoulders.

His thoughts overwhelm him and the alcohol burns, he's getting tired but it means nothing, he hasn't really slept in weeks. He tries to rest, tries to come up with a routine, something to take away the exhaustion but he knows it's in vain, that the memory is still too vivid. He expects her to call, to discuss a new case, to rest her head on his shoulder again, one last time, her hand in his. Mourning takes time, he knows that too, and this was _them_ , this was special, the good times and the bad and _I'm not going to let anything happen to you_. That was then. It was a lie.

He empties the glass and lets the bitterness rest on his tongue, the same procedure every night, but he misses her and there's not much left of the man he used to be, the man she had made him. Someone who had allowed himself to believe in second chances. It doesn't seem to end, the constant hurt and how it lingers so persistently, unwavering in its intensity.

And now, there was nothing. Without her, there was nothing.

He rises from the couch, his bones heavy and aching and his heart broken, and there's a knock on the door and he barely registers, wouldn't have if not for the child and his pledge to protect her, and so he checks for his gun because he doesn't expect guests, because he doesn't want to see anyone, because barely anyone knows he's here.

His steps are unsteady and something is different, something feels off, and then his fingers encircle the doorknob and then familiar eyes stare back at him and it's cruel, it's brutal in its realness, this kind of illusion and detail, and the alcohol, it must have done this to him, because this can't be, because this _just can't be_ _._

And his fingers are trembling and he doesn't know what to do.

Because he is suffering. Because he can't live without her.

Because he _doesn't understand._ A terrified whisper.

"Lizzie?"


	2. Stay With Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading. Hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.

Silence. Just that. Complete silence.

She looks beautiful. Her hair is longer, her eyes are wide open. A vision.

His hand moves on its own accord, wants confirmation, wants _something_ , and he knows she'll vanish in a second, disappear from beneath his fingertips, but then there's contact, skin against skin, and he's staring and staring and _staring,_ closes his eyes to force himself back into reality, he can still feel her, and when he finally opens them again she is _still_ right in front of him and his voice sounds foreign and far away and his mind is finally giving in, this is it, this is _real_.

And then he hears it.

_Red._

And something breaks.

It's a chemical reaction, the way he moves towards her, it's magnetic and urgent and so, so human, closer, always closer, _oh my god_ , pulling and tugging, _Lizzie_ , the way he crushes her to him, to feel her, to breathe her in, to finally believe it and accept it, _you're alive_ , with no room between them, _you're alive,_ and she's clinging to him _,_ something to hold on to, fistfuls of his shirt and her face buried in his neck, she's waited for so long, the relief almost unbearable now, his heartbeat against her chest, and _you_ , _I do love you,_ she'll finally be able to tell him. She'll never let him go again.

He whispers her name over and over, has missed the sound of it, the sweetness of it, and he's afraid to release her, to put even a bit of distance between them, it might still be a dream, his mind is capable of extraordinary things, and he can survive a lot, but not this, not again. She's the only one that can save him.

He feels her pull away from him then, after mere minutes, after an eternity, he can't tell anymore, has lost all concept of time because she's here, she's _here_ , and nothing else could possibly matter now. His head is bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, and he needs time to regain his composure but her hands are moving up his neck now, come to rest just above his jaw, testing, tracing, he looks tired, she thinks, he looks exhausted, and she tilts up his head then, makes him look at her, _Raymond_ , and his eyes are just how she remembers them, _I'm okay_ , they're kind and warm and loving.

"Talk to me," she says.

It's an easy request but he can't, he just can't, he's struggling with all of it and he doesn't know where to begin.

One thing he can offer. A simple phrase. A sigh, aching and wistful.

"I missed you."

* * *

He's making tea.

There are two empty cups in front of him and the water is boiling and he's perfectly still. His hands are grasping the counter almost violently, searching for something solid, something to steady himself, because she is alive and healthy and in the next room, and he is scared of the moment the realization finally hits him with full force, the moment he knows without a shred of doubt that a life without her is a thing of the past, a terrible thing, a vicious thing. They have so much to discuss and he wants to know what happened, needs to know, of course he does, but it's secondary because it doesn't make a difference and there'll be time, he hopes, he hasn't asked her yet, can barely even look at her without reaching for her, every contact replacing the memory of her lifeless hand resting against his cheek. It's all he's known for months, the image haunting him and _there was a woman I loved._

He carries the cups into the living room and places them on the table in front of the fireplace, doesn't see or hear her and _no_ , she has to be somewhere, anywhere. Quietly he calls for her, doesn't want to wake Agnes, and then it clicks, of course, _Agnes_ , and he walks towards his bedroom and sees her then, the beautiful girl in her arms, asleep and content, and he knows that nothing could ever possibly compare to the sight in front of him. He's invisible to them, doesn't dare to interrupt their moment, just leans against the doorframe instead and stays there, observes and savors. When she notices him, she smiles and nods, invites him in because he's saved them both over and over and over, _thank you,_ she says, and he shakes his head in response. She wonders if he'll ever accept her gratitude, even now. _I have done nothing for you,_ except he has, he has done everything for them, has grieved and fought and sacrificed, has guaranteed her safety and well-being, has been a father to her daughter. She'll be strong for him, knows he needs time, but he has her now, has her love and loyalty and trust, and she'll make him understand soon enough. She wants to rediscover him, wants to make him see that she meant it, the apologies, her admission, as unfinished as it might have been. He must have felt it. She's sure of that, too.

He kisses her temple and lingers there, soft sounds and closed eyes, and _tea is ready whenever you feel like it._

She stops him before he leaves the room.

"Stay with us."

* * *

This is familiar.

He's pictured this many times, escapes to it when the need for comfort becomes too strong, the warmth of her, her presence, it's how he survived after she was gone, but the reality of it almost destroys him. She looks at him differently now, as if she's finally arrived, as if she couldn't have handled their separation much longer, and to acknowledge it is one thing, but to accept it is another, and he is still working on the latter. He's so accustomed to not let his emotions take over, to be rational, to not hope for something better, not hope for _her_ , and then she spoke those finals words to him and everything shattered.

And he knew. Has carried the burden ever since. Has wasted so much time.

 _Y_ _ou are going to have that_ _._ A chance at keeping his promise after all.

The bed is spacious but she stays close, her daughter resting between them, sleeping peacefully still, it's perfect, he thinks, so achingly perfect. She watches as the little girl shifts towards him, seeking his warmth and protection, and he's so gentle with her, makes sure she's alright and smiles down at her.

"As beautiful as your mother," she hears him say. A statement, as if it's the only fact he's sure of.

And she moves towards him, their noses touching now, her forehead against his, and this is everything, something that makes it all worth it, to feel safe, to feel loved, her child and him. With her fingertips tracing the lines on his face, committing every detail to memory and storing it away, the secrets, the hurt, the suffering, every line a new story, a step towards healing. With his sanguine eyes watching her, all wonder and awe, _my life_ , a future in front of him, _my heart_ , and a lightness he can't quite grasp now, the grief gone, and hope, just hope. A home, a family.

"Would you like me to explain?" she asks.

He's so close to breaking. Just wants her with him.

"Tomorrow, Lizzie. Tomorrow." It's all he can manage.

"Okay."

His lips are soft when she kisses him. A promise. Certainty.

_It's as it should be._


End file.
